


Optional

by Cheshyr



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, But happy ending yay!, Lots of Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-12 04:18:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheshyr/pseuds/Cheshyr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is acutely aware of the fact that no one really chooses him. They just get stuck with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Optional

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guess what! This one IS beta'd! And it IS season two compatible! (well, ish) And I STILL do what I want! :D

Nobody chooses Stiles.

When June and David Stilinski got married, they both dreamed of the family they’d have one day. They’d lie in bed together, June’s head resting on her husband’s chest as he stroked her hair, and they’d fantasize about their children. June wanted a girl so badly. Wanted a little baby girl to dress up and put bows in her hair and talk to about boys and guide her through life as her mother had done for her. David wanted a boy to roughhouse and play sports with and teach to be a perfect gentleman. The Stilinski’s would hold each other and laugh and call each other clichéd and pray for their future children.

The first time she gets pregnant, June throws herself into her husband’s embrace and he twirls her around because they’re starting a _family_. The first week, they go to the bookstore and buy armfuls of baby books. The fifth week they stay up late discussing baby names. The twentieth week they find out they are having a little girl. The twenty-first week June wakes up bleeding. 

They rush to the hospital, frantically calling their OB/GYN, but by the time they arrive it is too late. The doctor, an older woman with wrinkles around her eyes, shakes her head sadly and pats June’s hand as if that will make up for the fact that she just lost her baby. 

Driving home, David has to pull over and take his wife into his arms, letting her sob brokenly on the side of the road while he lets his tears fall silently. 

The next time she gets pregnant, they are afraid to touch each other, both hyperaware of how fragile the life in her belly is. But they still smile and cry happy tears because this is their second chance. David pulls down all the baby books from where they had been gathering dust at the top of their bookcase. June researches prenatal vitamins and things to avoid. Each week, they smile wider. When she is nineteen weeks along, she gets an ultrasound and the doctor tells them they are having a boy. The Stilinski’s hold hands and blink back happy tears. When she is twenty-two weeks pregnant, June feels the baby kick, and calls her husband at work, babbling incoherently through her excitement. That night after dinner, David places his ear to his wife’s belly and tells his son he loves him. At twenty-five weeks, June has a little baby bump to rest her hands on whenever she looks down. At twenty-eight weeks, June goes into labor.

She is not at home when it happens. She had just walked down to the market a few blocks away. Halfway there, she feels a sharp pain. It doesn’t last, and she assumes it was just a cramp and keeps going. It happens again when she walks through the door, and again when she is scanning the produce isle. Finally, she drops her basket, apples and a box of cereal spilling out as she falls to her knees in pain, her body clenching in what she now recognizes as contractions. An employee rushes to her side, asking if she is okay, but all June can think of is the wet patch growing on her sweatpants. She starts to cry, and tells the worker to call 911.

David arrives at the hospital just seconds after the ambulance, running through the door and demanding to see his wife. He holds her hand for five hours. 

Gabriel Connor Stilinski is two pounds and fifteen inches long and lives for one hour after being born. His parents reach out and lay their hands against the glass of the incubation chamber, and stare down at him, even as the doctor tells them there’s nothing they can do. Even as his tiny chest goes still.

June won’t touch David for a long time after that. She folds in on herself, her arms wrapped around her cursed womb and she sleeps on the couch until David switches because he wants her to be comfortable. 

It is a slow process. Eventually he is allowed back in bed, but sex is off the table. Even a touch that can be interpreted as intimate causes her breath to pick up and her chest to tighten. It takes her almost six months before the anxiety ebbs away enough for her to sleep with her husband, and another six months after that to agree to stop using protection. Four months later, June Stilinski begins her third pregnancy.

She sits in the bathroom for ten minutes, breathing through the rising panic, before she can even open the door to call her husband and tell him that the stick turned blue. 

For the first three months they don’t do anything. They lie away at night and pray, trying and failing not to get their hopes up. When she is nineteen weeks pregnant, June gets an ultrasound and asks not to be told the sex. At twenty-six weeks, her father dies of a stroke, but she does not cry, afraid her tears will poison her child. At thirty-one weeks, the Stilinski’s hesitantly put together a nursery, David painting the room a soft grey and assembling a crib that they fill with yellow blankets and pillows. At thirty-three weeks June wakes up and screams because there is blood between her legs. They are assured that their baby is fine, there is simply a problem with the placenta and so June is placed on complete bed rest. David takes time off of work because his wife is too afraid to move, lying on her side like a statue. At thirty-eight weeks, the doctor puts her hands on June’s swollen belly and frowns.

“Your baby is in breech position.”

The man and woman each take a stuttering breath. June closes her eyes and squeezes her husband’s hand as he swallows thickly. “What, um… what does that mean?”

“It means the baby is facing feet first, instead of head first as would be the case in an ideal birthing situation.” She explains patiently, “Your baby is not in danger, but considering the problems you have had in the past, I am going to advise against natural birth. I can schedule you for a C-section close to the due date to avoid complications.”

They agree, but there are still complications.

At forty weeks pregnant, June Stilinski is wheeled into the operating room, David holding her hand the entire time, smiling through the surgical mask he had been given. Their baby is delivered, and the doctors announce that they have a little boy, and the couple has just a moment to smile at each other before Junes eyes flutter closed.

Then there are screeching machines and doctors scrambling, tossing around words like “bleeding” and “emergency hysterectomy” before David is pulled out of the room, gaze fixed on his wife’s pale face.

He spends six of the worst hours of his life in the waiting room before a nurse finally comes and assures him that he has a family. His son is healthy and strong, and his wife is still unconscious but alive and stable. 

When she finally wakes up, June can’t stop crying, unable to decide if she is heartbroken or relieved at having that part of her taken away. But when the nurse finally brings in her child, wrapped in soft blue blankets and sleeping peacefully, June cries with joy. They both look down at their son, held fast in his mother’s arms with his father stroking his one exposed arm. June laughs and turns to her husband and says, “I’m sorry, but can we name him after my father?”

David laughs back and kisses her forehead and says, “I’m not the one to apologize to.”

~

When he is one year old, their son is learning to talk, and he can say “mama” and “dada”, but for the life of him he cannot say his own name. David raises an eyebrow at his wife and mumbles “I told you so” before ducking to avoid being slapped on the head. 

June chews her lip. “Well, maybe he could say his last name?”

“Stilinski isn’t much easier.”

“Yeah, well, you get the blame for that one.”

For two weeks they say their son’s full name over and over. He babbles other words, seems enthralled with them, but there’s only so much you can expect from an infant, and that name was just beyond his reach. Until finally one day his father stands in front of him, sounding out, “Stah-lin-skee. Can you say that? Staaah-linnn-skeeee.” June laughs in the background and is about to tell him to give up when impossibly large amber eyes blink and their son cocks his head to the side.

“Stiles.”

The way he says it, it sounds more like “Stah-uhls,” but his parents both freeze. There is a beat of silence before both adults shriek with joy. David lifts his son up, spinning the laughing child around the kitchen.

“Yes! Yes! That’s your name!”

June rushes over and joins the excitement. “He can say all of our names now!” Sure enough, when they finally put him down, they point excitedly.

“What’s my name?”

“Mama!”

“And mine?”

“Dada!”

“And what’s your name?”

“Stiles!”

They cheer, and for a long time, everything is okay.

~

Everything happens at once. Stiles is six, and he has started to notice things. He sees the way his mother stares longingly at the little girls in their Easter dresses, and the way his father sighs heavily when Stiles gets distracted when he tries to teach him soccer. Stiles gets distracted a lot. He is six months into his sixth year when he is diagnosed with ADHD. His mother rubs her forehead, and his father pinches the bridge of his nose. 

Then his mom gets sick. 

One day she falls, and his dad loads them into the car and goes to the hospital. His mom doesn’t come back. For awhile, when she is getting treatment, Stiles’ aunt, his dad’s sister, comes to take care of him. She is a young business woman, no kids of her own, and she doesn’t know how to act around them. She speaks too freely to Stiles.

When he asks what’s wrong with his mommy, she says, “Blood clots. Started in her legs and now she has an infection. Maybe it was a side effect of your birth.” She wonders aloud, and doesn’t think to tell the child that she doesn’t mean that the way it sounds. 

When Stiles spends half the day coloring in the corner, politely declining his aunt’s offers to take him to the park to run around and play, she tilts her head and hums, “You’re not quite what either of them wanted, are you?”

He looks up questioningly, and she explains, like she would to an adult, “Well, I know your mother wanted a girl, and David, your dad, he wanted an athlete, kind of like he was. He played lots of sports, you know. Interesting that they ended up with you.” She doesn’t say it meanly; she is only making an observation. Stiles is too young to understand that and too old to forget.

A month later, his mother’s body falls victim to the raging infection that the doctors couldn’t diagnose. His father sobs for almost two days, and Stiles can’t breathe, because he thinks he might have killed his mommy.

~

When Stiles is seven years old, he learns about his siblings. They are visiting his mother’s grave on the one year anniversary of her death. Unlike the funeral, where Stiles had been distracted by the hole in the ground that looked like it went on forever and the way his father couldn’t even stand up straight, this time Stiles notices the small marker immediately beside his mom’s.

“Dad, who’s Gabriel?”

For a second the Sheriff feels his heart clench tight in his chest. He can’t do this now, can’t rehash that old wound when this one is still so fresh.

“Not now, Stiles.” His voice is harsh, and cold, and full of pain. Stiles nods, and even though his father sits him down that night and explains, tells him about the first two children who didn’t make it, shares the whole story, Stiles still decides not to ask ever again. His father sounds so sad, and Stiles feels guilty. So the sheriff never offers, and Stiles never asks. 

He understands more as he gets older. He understands that the look in his father’s eyes when Stiles spends his time playing video games or reading every genre of book he can get his hands on instead of playing outside is disappointment. When Stiles gets bad marks on his report card because of his poor attention span, his father is disappointed. When Stiles can’t stop talking and racing between topics after his father gets home from work, he is disappointed. He thinks he recognizes the look in memories of his mother, too. 

Sometimes he wonders whether things would be better or worse if the first two had survived. Maybe his dad would feel less let down if he also had the good children. Or maybe Stiles would only be more disappointing by comparison. 

~

School is hard. Stiles is too hyperactive, and talkative, and strange. He spends most of his time alone. Until one day in fourth grade, Scott McCall moves to Beacon Hills with his mom. The boy is nervous, and apparently rightly so. He is lanky with dark, floppy hair. He is clumsy, and not very bright, and shy, and the new kid. During lunch, he makes his way around the cafeteria, asking each group if he can join them and being rejected each time. It is only after being shot down by everyone else that he stands before Stiles in the corner of the room.

“May I sit with you?”

Stiles beams, and says “Of course!” and spends lunch chattering on about anything he can think of, trying to get Scott to join because that’s what friends do, right? And they do become friends. They learn about each other and their likes and dislikes and they have a surprising amount in common. But in the back of his mind, Stiles can’t forget that Scott didn’t choose him. He just got stuck with him because no one else was left.

~

By high school, he is desperate because really, nothing has gotten better. His dad works long hours and has high blood pressure and high cholesterol, and rolls his eyes when Stiles tries to get him to eat better, and Stiles still feels like a disappointment.

So when he gets to high school, he looks all around him. He sees the debate team and thinks about how much he loves talking circles around people. He sees the writing club and thinks about how good he is at spinning tales. He sees clubs for video games, and online roleplaying games, and books, and history, and all the things that fascinate him. He sees lacrosse and thinks of his dad.

Scott tries out too, and Stiles may not be buff but he’s fast, and determined, and that is probably the only thing that gets him onto the team. He runs home and sits in the living room, leg bouncing and hands fidgeting until his dad finally gets home and Stiles leaps up and blurts out that he made it into lacrosse. For one night, his dad looks so proud of him, and Stiles soaks it up, drinks it with desperation, and decides he wants to feel this way forever. 

But it doesn’t last, because it soon becomes very clear that being _on_ the team is not the same as being a _part_ of the team. Stiles goes to practice every day and sits on the bench every game. His dad stops coming, and Stiles stops asking. 

~

There are a few weeks where Stiles hates Allison. It’s not fair, and he knows that, but still. It’s there. Because once she is in the picture, all of Stiles’ old insecurities are realized. Just as he always feared, as soon as Scott was given another option, he was gone, and Stiles was left deleting videos from Lydia’s phone with no one to turn to. 

Stiles is so tired of having his heart broken. His best friend barely notices him anymore, his father has moved from disappointed to frustrated at finding his son at so many crime scenes, and then he finally, _finally_ was going to play first line, could see that little spark of pride in his father’s eyes again, and he was starving for it. But then he is in a car with Derek Hale, because he knew that this was more important, even if it hurt. 

There is another crack when Lydia asks him to prom and for a split second Stiles feels his heart flutter. But then his eyes flick back and he sees the smug grin on Allison and he takes in the resigned displeasure on Lydia’s face and yeah, he’s hyperactive and dorky and a bit spastic but he is smart, dammit, and he knows when a person has been forced into something.

So he smiles, and holds piles of dresses, and calls her beautiful, and lets her go. Lydia is just another person who doesn’t want him, so he lets her go after Jackson. He only regrets it when he sees Peter’s teeth sink into her flesh, and even then he still thinks he made the right choice. 

The entire night he can feel his heart against his ribcage, not beating hard or fast, just painfully. An ironic ache that even though he’s smarter and more loyal and has a better handle on his priorities, Peter Hale only drags him along because he wants Scott. Scott, who thinks Stiles is ruining his life because he doesn’t want his best friend to kill anyone, who just wants to play first line even if people get hurt, who tries to kill Stiles and throws Derek under the bus and whose username and password are both fucking “Allison”, who Scott has ditched his best friend for more times than Stiles can count.

_Still want him in your pack?_

The answer is yes. Even when the alpha grasps the human’s wrist and offers the bite, Stiles knows. He can see it in his eyes. No one ever asked Stiles what he wants, but now, with Peter’s breath ghosting over his skin, he just wants to be more. To be more than a last resort, a bargaining chip, a tagalong, a fallback, a back-up. He pulls his arm away and says he doesn’t want to be like him, and Peter just calls him a liar. Stiles runs to the hospital and laughs because even the insane don’t want him.

But Peter dies, so he supposes it doesn’t matter much.

Derek becomes the alpha, and he makes a pack of his own. He turns Isaac, and Erica, and Boyd and he chases after Scott like a damn _dog_. Stiles saves his life and makes sacrifices, more sacrifices, and waits for Derek to offer him the bite. He would be good pack, he knows it. He turned down Peter because that was just a ploy to manipulate Derek and Scott, but if Derek offered…If Derek offered, Stiles would say yes.

He never does. Stiles runs between Scott and Allison, and clenches his teeth as Mr. Harris tears him down, and watches his mechanic die, and holds Derek in the cold, cold water, and he is never good enough. The Kanima keeps killing, the Argents get closer, Lydia falls apart. He gets his dad fired. 

That night, Stiles hugs his knees to his chest, staring into the darkness, and he wonders what life would be like if he had never been born. He thinks of his sister and brother, the gravestone next to his mother’s with a single date on it, and he thinks that his parents must have put everything they wanted, everything good, into those two children, so by the time Stiles came around there was nothing left but disappointment and disdain. 

When the sun rises he doesn’t get up. When his alarm goes off he doesn’t get dressed. When he hears his father drive away to God knows where he doesn’t open his eyes. When the window to his bedroom opens he doesn’t even move.

“Stiles.” Derek voice is harsh and commanding.

The human only sighs tiredly. “What?”

“Get up. Now. I need you to do something for me.”

“No you don’t.” He can’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. “You’ve got your whole pack, and Scott, and you are absolutely capable of saving this fucking town without me.”

For a moment, the werewolf is stunned into silence, by his words or his tone or the fact that he defied him at all, or maybe a mix. Either way, there is a beat before he lets out a frustrated huff.

“Fine, maybe, but I don’t want to.”

Now Stiles’ eyes snap open. He fixes a piercing stare onto the alpha, searching for something, and if Derek wasn’t Derek, he would have been fidgeting under the scrutiny. But he didn’t, and then Stiles started to laugh.

Because _damn_ , it was totally a fluke. It had to be.

“Why?” He asks when he can finally breathe again. Derek looks confused, but Stiles presses on, sitting up and leaning over his knees. “Why don’t you want to do this without me? Don’t I talk too much? Ask too many questions? Aren’t I always in the wrong place at the wrong time?” He rolls off the bed and stands, pacing and ranting and releasing everything he’s kept pent up. “I guess I finally found a way to at least be useful, huh? ‘Cause none of your stupid betas want to do all the boring research, am I right? None of them want to sacrifice their time or pride or fucking first line, but at least Stiles is good for something!”

Silently, imperceptibly, Derek breathes a sigh of relief, because he’d rather have Stiles ranting and raving than still and motionless on his bed. But ideally, he’d have the boy listen. “Stiles, shut up. It’s not-“

“No! Screw that!” His energy is back, a fire in his chest and he is tired but he will fight for his rest. “I’m not just here to do the work no one else will do. I don’t even care anymore, I am so sick of this. You know what, if you don’t want me around, I’m not gonna stick around.”

“But I _do_ want you around!”

A blanket of stillness descends them, the frantic energy surrounding Stiles finally dissipating as he stares at the alpha, eye narrowed in blatant disbelief. 

Derek’s jaw snaps shut, and it is clear he hadn’t really meant to let that out. But now that it is out there, he has to continue. “Look you… you got sucked into all this by association. You could leave anytime you want, but… I mean Scott needs you, and I figured if you had stuff to do you wouldn’t leave. But that’s not… why I want you around, I just…” The older man fumbles to express what he’s trying to say, body tense and uncomfortable. He’s not good with words. Finally he growls in frustration, “You know what, I don’t have to explain myself to you! God, I just-“

Stiles’ mouth twitches, because that sounds like the sourwolf he knows. He takes a deep breath and speaks up just as Derek is throwing his hands up, turning back towards the window and about to bolt.

“What did you need?”

Pausing, the werewolf turns back, schooling his features into his usual scowl. “Research.” He rattles off the information he needs and Stiles nods, walking to his desk and sitting down in front of his computer. He opens his laptop, but turns around when he hears his mattress creak. Derek flops down onto Stiles’ bed, stretching out and folding his hands behind his head, closing his eyes.

Stiles speaks hesitantly, “You don’t need to stay.”

“I know that.” Derek snaps harshly, but there is a faint splash of color on his cheeks so Stiles shakes his head and chuckles softly, turning back to his computer and opening a new tab.

They don’t talk, but Derek doesn’t leave. Hours pass, the night wears on, and Stiles prints out a fifteen-page packet of information. He stands and holds it out to the werewolf, who takes it only to drop it on the floor beside the bed without opening his eyes, grumbling something about not having had a heater in a long time. Smiling, Stiles goes and flips the light off before returning and nudging the alpha over, ignoring his muttering protests, until there is enough room for Stiles to lie down beside him. They stay like that all night, on top of the covers and pressed silently against each other, side-by-side.

In the darkness, Stiles sighs in contentment. Because he realizes that Derek can leave anytime he wants. He just doesn’t want to.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! (Shameless self-advertisement) If you enjoyed, please check out my other works! If not... have a lovely day.


End file.
